Pawns on the Board
by Roove
Summary: The context: a simple conversation in one of Dark World's taverns. What else is there to do in Dark World other than fight, die, and reflect on one's own life choices?


"Thank the gods."

"Hmm?"

"We've arrived. I don't know if I could have kept walking for much longer. My feet are aching. Boots are too tight."

"If they hurt your feet so much, Grub, why don't you ask for new boots? The captain wouldn't mind."

"Why would I do that? Taking them off at the end of the day is something I look forward to. We could always ask the captain for mounts-"

"Only the ones in the Elite Force get mounts. Do you really think they'd give them to common soldiers?"

"No… Getting to enjoy two nice things per day would be too unlikely, I guess."

If Earth had its share of dive bars, nearly _every_ drinking establishment that marred Dark World's rugged terrain had sunk to a point where they could thumb their noses up at those human dens of sin. The Goblin King himself would balk at the thought of setting foot in one. Nevertheless, the disgusting taverns were havens for the unwanted, yearning, thirsty, and worn residents of the dark dimension. One of the taverns, The Coracle, saw a good number of these faces. Whether they were passing soldiers or vagrants, all were welcome as long as they could pay.

Naturally, the outer structure of The Coracle was made up of the same rugged stone as every other building in Dark World. It would have stood out terribly in any landscape that wasn't its own. It was near impossible to see through the open curtained windows, but an ominous aura seeped from within the building. Upon entering the tavern through the double doors, one would be welcomed by the stench of cheap alcohol, the rusty scent of blood, and the boistrous jabbering of patrons who had given up on life. The walls themselves were completely blank, covered only by an ever-thickening layer of mold and grime. The setting might have looked deceivingly pleasant through a drunken haze though. Not that the bartender, constantly busy pouring someone else's swill, would make any effort to acknowledge a newcomer's presence. Yet, assuming one could also get over the fact that the area immediately around the bar smelled strongly of urine, it was pleasantly warm and the rowdier patrons usually kept their fights to themselves.

"Why do you care?"

The two pointy-earred men sitting at one wooden table in the corner may have looked odd in such a disreputable place. Each was dressed in a well-cut tuxedo and supple black leather loafers, his coat draped over his chair and his hat placed adjacent to his drink of choice.

"Writing's dull", the fiend of the two murmured. Being left-handed, it was no wonder why he didn't care for it much. His handwriting was sloppy, illegible, and his hand was always smudging up the ink. No, Witty Phantom preferred to voice his words instead of making anyone suffer with his 'chicken-scratch'. Fortunately, his life under Haou didn't require him to record anything unlike his last career choice. Speaking of the Devil… "So... How goes handling souls?"

"Same as always." There was a piercing glare. "It's stable work." There was Magical Undertaker, currently seated across the table from him. The spellcaster was of a shorter stature, but sported the same night-colored suit. The smaller man picked at the fingertips of his gloves. "Work is work. You didn't answer my question. As long as you can afford to live, why do you care which work you have?"

Witty Phantom blinked as his eyes flicked up from his writing to look into the face of his companion. Most fiend-types had that trademark growling metallic accent. When he replied, his held the same disbelieving inflection as it had when he had witnessed Brron's death. "Work quality can be ranked just as we are."

"Presiding over the dead is a little different than joining an _army_ ", Magical Undertaker murmured, taking another sip of his drink.

The fiend pursed his lips and his eyes locked with Magical Undertaker's for a pregnant moment. "Well, technically speaking, they are one and the same. The latter requires less solemnity, of course", he purred, and when the spellcaster didn't seem amused, the demon continued with, "Haou's soldiers are given privilege, more so than those who work as mere servants under him." He flashed the undertaker a smirk. "Aligning yourself with a warlord in Dark World gives you the opportunity to build a reputation, albeit a small one at first. Would I have had that same opportunity working for the dead?" He breathed in, drawing himself up in his seat. "Brron may have been hated, but he had the right idea: if anything, the dead should be made to serve the living." He spread his arms in a dramatic flourish. "I'm looking at life through different eyes. I've been given a new purpose."

"Humor me. Summarize it."

Witty Phantom set his glass down and pushed it away, obviously done with his favorite delight. "I left the Reaper's service, joined Brron, then Haou. I've plundered with the firmest intent on subjugating this world to the tyranny of whichever master I've had. Oh", he added with a hint of smugness, "and the two I've worked under have done their fair share of winning." That tickled him most fiercely of all.

A whispered curse brushed past Magical Undertaker's lips as he shook his head. Shutting his eyes, he combed his fingers back through his marroon hair. "You're going to get yourself killed."

"I'm trying to do something with my life", the fiend retorted. "Same as you."

The dark spellcaster's own crimson eyes rested on Witty Phantom's verdant ones. Whether that was doubt or disapproval in Magical Undertaker's voice, he spoke drily. "Things could be worse. At least you're not one of them-" With all concern for subterfuge, Magical Undertaker flicked a gloved pinky in the direction of an imp, Winged Minion, as it fluttered past them with a tray of empty mugs. For all they knew, it could have been associated with Guardian Baou's own Spear Cretin. All those little imps seemed to have some secretive network set up, even ones under the noses of warlords. "Tomorrow morning, you could have headed to work with the rest of us, Ralvin. It would have been the same comfortable routine: pay without getting your hands dirty. You should have been grateful with what you had."

Witty Phantom almost looked offended as he sheepishly eyed his companion. "I was. Mediocrity just doesn't sit well with me."

"You're only level four", Magical Undertaker quickly reminded him. "And one of the weaker ones of your level at that. You have no unique abilities to speak of. No amount of prestige or vying for favor will change that." He certainly didn't speak with any malicious intent. It was stated matter-of-factly.

The bridge of Witty Phantom's curved nose wrinkled as he leaned back in his seat, arms crossing over his chest. "Don't forget. I'm _twice_ your ranking, but I'm still not satisfied. A life spent presiding over the dead and dying may work for you, but it's not lofty enough for my tastes. If you had any good sense, or maybe a couple extra levels, you would feel the same way." The fiend paused as Magical Undertaker sucked in a sharp breath and scowled up at him. The spellcaster's thin lips parted as if he were about to say something snarky in retaliation, but he was cut off. "Oh, don't give me that look. Power grants privilege and protection. We both know how this world works…"

Magical Undertaker fidgeted in his seat and fingered one of the buttons on his shirt's cuff. "You could have always waited to see if you would catch the eye of somebody in Dark World's upper crust. Why put yourself at risk to do so?"

"You lack ambition."

"Ambition to be a conqueror's plaything. Right." Magical Undertaker muttered it under his breath and, if Witty Phantom's hearing weren't so acute, the spellcaster wouldn't have been heard at all.

"Unless you live in complete isolation, aren't we all somebody else's plaything?"

"Well, yes, that's reality. I'm sure some of us get used more than others though."

"I have learned to live with reality, but there's more to it than that. I forget about it for years and years, then it surfaces: the desire to be placed in history's context. The desire to be known by others." He could wax-poetic as much as anyone who was mildly tipsy. Witty Phantom's smirk suddenly dropped as he made eye contact with the one sitting across from him. "You'll at least stay in this world a while longer, won't you?" he asked, as if it had suddenly occurred to him that Magical Undertaker just might not. Loneliness always wore on the demon's dark soul like a heavy conscious. As a fiend type, cultivating friendships was naturally challenging as well. Witty Phantom wasn't guaranteed to find any legitimate companionship among Haou's ranks.

"Until you realize you've made a foolish choice or your choice ends in a permanent consequence…"

That was enough for him. His life was a transitory one, and more so than his companion could understand. Who knew where he would be thrown next? The universe seemed to have a sick sense of humor whenever it played with him. Brron, Mad King of Dark World was the being he had originally pledged allegience to. He would have never expected to find himself working for a human. Years ago, that would have been a mortifying idea. While his personal knowledge of humanity was limited, every non-human who had ever crossed paths with him had been under the impression that humans were ridiculously feeble. That assertion's level of truth wasn't for him to determine. In truth, he could only recall one odd incident years ago in which he had run into any humans, during one of those accidental dimension-jumping incidents. What had they called it again? Virtual reality? A princess, a dragon, the game's designer as his prisoner, chickens in the desert… Humans had such odd hobbies. Of course, he would never, _never_ say that to his current warlord's face. Apparently, not all humans were weak.

Witty Phantom patted himself down and stretched before getting to his feet. The Coracle was getting crowded, and if there was one thing about the fiend that never changed, it was his limited capacity for crowds. Picking his hat up off the table, Witty Phantom clicked his tongue. "I'm not suicidal", he stated as he furrowed his brow in mock contention. "I'm being an active player in whatever the gods have decided for me."

"If they've already decided something, can you really be an active player?" It wasn't voiced as a question meant to be answered, but rather it sounded quite flat. Only the very weary would have been able to catch its bitter undertone. "You're leaving?" Magical Undertaker asked after a pause, watching his drinking companion slip his jacket on.

"If I stay out any later, I won't be able to wake up in time tomorrow. Goodnight."

"Be safe."

"Of course."

As he turned his back to Magical Undertaker, the ground around the fiend's feet would waver, shimmer, then darken in the dim light of the tavern. Within seconds, he had sunk down into the floor and made his exit. That vanishing trick was less about being flashy than it was self-preservation. Dark World truly was a volatile place and Witty Phantom wasn't confident enough to journey back to the castle alone at night, whether he could still walk in a straight line or not.

Considering it lacked any illuminating star, day and night in Dark World were determined by the light of the comet. Morning was marked by a slightly paler glow. With any luck, he would fall asleep before then.


End file.
